


Piety

by korik



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Consensual Violence, Depersonalization Disorder, Fluff and Smut, I Tried, I guess it's painplay, I think?, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Not Beta Read, On BOTH SIDES, Oral Sex, Painplay, Riding, asexual Gabranth, because I'm die, can anyone else ever get by either of them talking with accents and in different languages?, demisexual Gabranth, helmet echo porn because yes, it's just very light?, pansexual Vayne, pretty shameless pwp, there's some unhealthy mentalities in here, though there is plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some go to hallowed grounds to ask for favors, some go to ask for forgiveness, some go because they couldn't give a damn.</p><p>Gabranth has taken his Oaths as Judge Magister, so there's a private celebration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piety

The jittery wail of the chair makes Gabranth flinch, across the bejeweled floor it shrieks in momentary displeasure as he loses his breath, slammed into its embrace, gauntleted fingers clattering onto the aged wood unused to such abuse. He is unaided by the weight of his armor, the heavy set plate that accents and protects what he cannot in the midst of battle, groaning as it weighs harshly upon his body.

The Judge cannot also forget the dragon-mailed figure that shimmers in his shielded gaze, illuminated by the playful strands of light doused with freckles that swarm and dance with each calculated breath, the white gloves that tossed him there, the frame that -

The chair groans beneath his weight, his own breathing rattling in his ear as he looks, helmeted head hunting with his eyes, fingers wearing grooves into rolling lines carved into the design wrought by man.

His breath resounds at the clamor at his waist – downwards he casts his sight to espy his lord: _kneeling before him as he would an altar._

The older man struggles to rise, to make the mockery end, or at least stop the insufferable flush and heat he can feel consuming his entire body. He reaches out to pull Vayne up, but the serpent wriggles from his grasp, slapping aside his hands with a harsh conviction. He can only envision the hard metal against those numbed hands hurts, and cannot help that he wishes to kiss the life-scarred digits beneath them.

“Do you love me?”

The whine that crushes out betwixt his lips takes the place of his words.

The young prince, rough though he may appear with the unruly tangle of browned hair nigh black tickling alongside darkened flesh, takes great care to unbuckle the thick belt that slings about Gabranth's waist, casually artful in the way his fingertips slide up his dressed groin and thighs, white against black. 

The younger man tilts his head, and the older shudders at the expression on his lord's face with cold cut eyes cast so firmly in shadow.

“I do not enjoy such oft repeated questions - “ Vayne's voice is like ice that embroils a flame, but it has a desperate, needing edge that plays into Noah's heartstrings; this is their game, their ploy. One cannot act without the other, and one has no purpose without a name to call it. The prince grinds out his words once more, the snaps of the front Noah's pants, exposed as they are, pulled upon on each word, those unerring white fingers keeping the flap from closing back again. “Do you...love me?”

Bristling shame and heat, the older man swallows a whine, a beg. “You would know if it t'were not so - “ he chokes as Vayne frees his cock from his clothes, rigid and aching, pulsing with his heartbeat - “A- _aye_ , I do - “

The soft laugh that curls from the Solidor's mouth makes the one time Landisian part his lips, expelling air as if it were too much a good thing.

To feel the hot and cold breaths his lord takes against the flesh of his prick is almost too much to bear – moist mouth so close, dabbing as though testing between well rounded words. “Then we are mutually assured destruction; I fear there is no other in my snare I wish to retain.”

The Judge restrains a laugh, but it feels... _good_ to be referred to as such. To be told he is captured. That he as a man is wanted in some way, so much so, perhaps, that even if it is not the kisses upon his mouth, the words in his ear, it is a place to start, knowing not the chains he submits to crush the throat of the one who would make him their own. So oft have Landisians been treated the exotic plaything, and he himself has not escaped from it, afraid at one point to be lost in the well dressed imitation of a fetish in Archadian court. Nay, this is infinitely better.

His chest heaves for air, finding the rests he clings to yielding as he tries to tear sanity from them. Vayne, situated so, seems unperturbed at the cracking of the wood, delicate in nosing his way about Noah's prick, lips pressing attentive, slow kisses so  _unlike_ his usual self that the Magister cannot help but to groan in his breast, flex and swear with murmured, incoherent wants as sweat drips down his face, making his helm rattle about his head with his heavy, wet breaths. 

That Vayne is being  _so kind_ is the worst kind of torture imaginable, for it is all he has wanted when all the rest of his life has been so unrelenting in its cruelty. That the Solidor  _wants_ to is even more tortuous, if it were somehow possible. It leaves him shaking, hips jolting on instinct brought on by the curve of merciless lips, laving tongue becoming more adventuresome as it is paired with glove covered hands grasping about his full girth, a size others have gawked at. 

Indeed, he  _would_ fuck his lord's face, but he knows full well that he will be further agonized for it, left to ripple in despair until the man at his feet gets all he wants.

The minutes tick by, and still the heir seems to refuse him when he tries to squirm his hips, almost invested in trying to drag whatever he had hidden out into the open as he shoves them down again, tearing a curse from his mouth in his drunken Landisi tongue.

Gabranth sweats and hates his armor, the hard edges tearing into the raised back of the chair and its cushion, but he does not think to take it off as if in some way its presence will save him the humiliation the rest of his body seems intent on. “M-my lord - “ he is almost startled by the weakness of his own voice, but it cannot be worse than the haze he feels - “ - my lord,  _please,_ let it end - “ He spasms again, knowing his cock drips with cum, and Vayne, the self indulgent arse that he is, inhales his entire length with greed, quite close to his dark gold curls. Noah chokes, cracks – slams his guarded head, guarded not so well when his helm is stopped and his skull keeps going, seeing stars as the prince  _hums incessantly_ , the encasing mouth rimmed in saliva and white.

The clatter of sound in the enclosed array of his helm pauses as a disgusting, self satisfied  _pop_ – and he is free. 

His lungs struggle for air, and his fingers ache from so much force suddenly gone, muscle retracting, trying to reset themselves into their proper places.

The older man  _trembles_ . “W-what would you have me do?” His tongue feels thick as he runs it over his lips, forcing it to form the words that compose the Noble language instead of the language of his birth. “ _Scream?_ ” Clad so, willfully kept to one place, he has stopped caring. The sanctity of this place wherein Magisters meet Gods (false ones that they be), where the candles flicker and line the walls, heavy drapes and tapestries clinging to the walls with an ironclad resolution, centuries old and yet so young compared to the others in the city, the others that were before the Magisters, it is  _all gone_ . All he can see now is the way Vayne peels the soft gloves from his fingers, the dark tongue lapping at the mess he has so created on his face as another wipes a chilled stripe from his cheek.

The cold eyes burn him, but he awaits a sound, a sign, shameless in his wanting, his prick throbbing at being abandoned.

The heir sways to his feet before him, and Noah still waits, breathing arrested. 

Scarred hands turn on the scale mail, dropping pieces of it to the floor in a nonsensical pattern. “I will feel your end,  _Noah_ .” 

All too soon, before he can glimpse, comprehend through the blackened cage his eyes gaze from, the body that bares itself so easily, the prince is astride his lap, strong thighs twitching as they slide across hard, blackened plate, across the rough leathers that encase all the rest of him. Noah's hands fumble to ensure no edge fouls his lord's flesh, catching himself from leaning forward and stealing a kiss upon the lips that draw near. It would do him no good with this helm on, and though he seeks to remove it, Vayne's hands instead brush him away again, teasing at the neck, grasping the fabric and leather that keeps the Judge's own flesh from harm.

A grunt, the Solidor balances on the Judge, and from somewhere he hadn't realized Vayne twists, drops something  _wet_ , heavier and thicker than water down his groin. Gabranth shudders as it slides down his swollen erection, chased by his lord's moistened fingers, melding with cream.

Noah jumps to realize the heir has turned those scar riddled fingers on himself –  _into_ himself. Keening, he reaches around the olive toned body, metal rattling as it grinds across itself, fingers following the lengths to which his lord's fingers squelch, tracing the straining musculature along sides and sweating backside with an unerring fondness, biting and tearing at his own lip with want to kiss the distressed face flushing in delight brought on by plundering himself.

The moment is short,  _too short_ , Gabranth thinks,  _for mi'lord's determination is -_

The roll of the heir's hips, guided by the clever, terrible hand, makes Noah sound whorish. His head finds relief against the hard wood, fingers wrapped in metal and leathers finding his lord's body tractable and willing, and he forces himself to ease his grip. It can be said that the younger man will bear these familiar marks in purples come the morrow, and as always Noah will pay his penance to them later.

The Judge feels nothing but a desire to  _wreck_ this princeling, to serve him some of the plate he has been unrelentingly  _fed._ There is also aching curiosity as to the extent of his own restraint in the face of it – for though he feels the golden twine of loving without reserve to allow him to enjoy this carnal affection that his lord presents to him regularly, he is inquisitive.

The heir's head lays curled betwixt his shoulder and neck, both hands grasping, nails scratching down, onto the chilled armor that keeps them from touching naked skin, soft gasps,  _agony_ and  _bliss_ , parting his lips.

Together the Judge teases his royal majesty, drawing him low until there is no more to be fit into Vayne's body, knowing that the pain the other feels through the sounds, the shatter of the usual calm, and the lack of the artful tongue emblazoned with silver. He personally does not enjoy its existence, that pain should pay homage to his lord alongside the thrill, and he knows it is part of what makes the experience enjoyable for the other who so oft feels nothing so as to not feel everything, breaking conventional lovemakings that are the blond's preference with a relenting blow.

A slow rock of his hips and the heir is lifted, the older man aided as Vayne bounces compliantly, pleasantly, shivering, and down again the prince pushes, though the Magister now has the strength again to oppose him, drawing out the sensation for as long as it can be withstood on the return as a jubilant slick sound permeates their joining. 

Up and down, each time Noah hilts his lord as well as he can, grunting with the sore effort of restraining himself, of feeling the twang of muscle, warm and hot, so used to him, threaten his very existence. Up and down, he picks up his pace, relentless as he buries himself, knowing it cannot be long, feeling it curl his toes in his boots, clench his fingers into fists that grab skin. He still mourns that he is yet to be rid of his helmet, wanting to sink his teeth into the flush neck offered.

“Go on.”

His eyes snap open, and he is surprised twice over, firstly never remembering when he had clenched his brow so deeply as to force his eyes closed. His erratic thrusting slowed, and Vayne's crackled voice tried again, warm body quivering atop him.

“ _Go on_.”

The Judge obeys, a Vassal bidden by his Lord, a Lover bidden by his Love, fingers dragging down the curve of the well spun spine, plunging those last, relentless steps towards the end.

A strangled cry rips from his throat, the helmet thrown back with the force of his roaring head. Noah bites bright marks into the juncture between the shoulder and neck as he had wanted to, cradling the younger man close, entreating him with kisses and dousing the warm skin with adoration.

The lord is mewling, shaking, rooted atop him, body curled and clenched.

To Vayne's swollen cock his gloved and metal encrusted hand slides, careful, casual, sympathetic and giving.

A few tight jerks of his hand and the princeling screams, treating Noah again to the godsforsaken strength of his innards, flinching as the sound breaks so close to his ear, reverberating worse around the empty room than all his own cursing did in that blasted helmet.

A chaste kiss he supplicates from the darker skinned man, tongue dabbing at the blood he finds there on the curved lips that curl over the muscle of his mouth.

Vayne laughs softly, unmade in his arms, and Noah again decides he likes this man he had once thought was too young, and suffered too much alone. “ _Gabranth_ – “

“My lord?”

“You are....overly fond of formalities; pray, call me _Vayne_ , we are too _well...joined_ for such reserve. _”_

The Judge cannot help his smile, teasing the tight woven strands of hair from the prince's cheeks, kissing again the salted lips crusted with red. “Aye, I feel you shan't be rid of me.”


End file.
